


The Last House on Elm Street

by shefrommo



Series: I'm no longer in Creative Writing classes, so I can post these now [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Elliott better watch his back, Gen, Jude's nice is not your nice, Originally written on 8/28/19, Written for Creative Writing class, but it still might be better than the Richmonds' nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shefrommo/pseuds/shefrommo
Summary: Nobody ever seems to notice the last house on Elm Street, not even the house's neighbors. In other news, the last house anyone notices has taken a blow: the owners' son has run away. To a place not far from home, where he will never be seen again.
Relationships: Elliott Richmond & Jude
Series: I'm no longer in Creative Writing classes, so I can post these now [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800808
Kudos: 1





	The Last House on Elm Street

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy!

In the neighborhood of many, all the houses were different. There was no sense of uniformity here and it showed in homes that were as unique as their owners. One was pastel pink and had flowering bushes all along its driveway, another was gunmetal gray and looked like it had once been an alien warship that crash landed on Earth and had subsequently been badly disguised as a human house. No one could say it wasn’t—its occupants were suitably odd, to the point where they really didn’t seem to come from earth.

On Elm Street, two particular houses (numbers 43 and 45) sat next to each other, each one more distinct by the contrast between itself and its neighbor.

On the left was a mansion, kept obsessively clean in appearance (a gardener was employed to sculpt the lawn and each weekend a man came by to power wash the house—both the siding and the brick). A Mercedes and a Tesla occupied its driveway normally. It was beautiful—except for the colony of chickens that dwelt in the rooftop chicken coop. Those were unanimously hated.

It’s occupants—Richard and Celica Richmond—were remarkably uptight about their wealth and status, and often scorned the other residents of the neighborhood. Of all the absurd ones present, they seemed to resent their next-door-neighbor most and blamed the other for the disappearance of their eighteen-year-old son Elliott. Why this couple tolerated the chickens on the roof was a sore mystery for everyone else—the sort of thing that was gossiped about often at dinner. Were the Jorgen guys really aliens, how many times today did Mr. Smith lose his cat, why did the Richmond couple keep the chickens, did you hear about the King’s recent affair?

On the right was a tiny house, cramped and easily mistaken for a garden shed. (For the past twenty years, the mailman had dropped this house’s mail off in its neighbor’s mailbox.) It had been painted dark purple but was a now pale, sun-bleached lilac, interspersed with colorless patches where the paint had peeled off. The roof might have been tin once but was covered in so many cobwebs and decaying leaf litter that the roof was obscured. Even in the heaviest rain storms, the layer of detritus remained impenetrable.

It would have been the neighborhood’s best haunted house (for indeed, its occupants were never seen, and it had long been rumored that it was haunted, ever since Timmy Goodman saw a candle light itself in the window once, some sixty years past) but for one tiny detail. In the front yard—or overgrown bramble bush, rather—a handmade sign sat. It read, “All trick-or-treaters will be arrested for trespassing”. Under that was a crudely drawn picture of a kid in a ghost costume being beheaded by a guillotine.

One particularly balmy evening, when both members of the Richmond family were out late, two people met at the border of the two properties. The first one—brown-haired and wearing a particularly ugly pair of glasses—stepped over the property line first, crossing into the well-manicured lawn. He’d barely gotten a few steps in when he heard a yelp from behind him. “Elliott! Wait!”

He turns, and there he is—his companion and neighbor—running full tilt at him like he’s planning on tackling Elliott. He looks down. Nope. He’s over the property line. Nothing Jude can do about it. Still Elliott waits for him to catch up.

There’s a withered tree on the edge of Jude’s property. It’s untrimmed and all wild-growth, save for where it crosses the property line, and all the branches are cut short. Jude catches himself on it, half-collapsing against it and panting like he’s run a marathon and not just sprinted out of his house.

“What’s up?” Elliott asks, bemused by Jude’s uncharacteristic exercise.

“What’s up? _What’s up?_ ” Jude jerks his head up and glares. “You just up and left, that’s what’s up! I _thought_ you _said_ you weren’t _going back_ there _ever_ again. Elliott, what are you doing?”

Elliott didn’t retreat back a step (though he was sorely tempted to) and instead offered his friend a smile. “Hey, relax, I’ll be back in a minute. My parents are gone, you know. This is take-out-with-the-coworkers day. They won’t be back for another hour at least.”

Jude scowled. “You don’t know that!” He snapped. “People are unpredictable. They could have a fight at the restaurant and come home early. They could realize they’ve forgotten something and come back for it. They could—”

Elliott cut him off. “They won’t. Mom and Pop aren’t late for anything. Ever. Forget something? Buy it on the way. Had a fight? Find somewhere else to go, to sulk if nothing else, and leave a scathing review for the old place. They’ve got a schedule to follow and they’ll follow it.”

Jude straightened up and crossed his arms. In the fading light, he didn’t look quite human, but then he never really had to Elliott. Too pretty, and in all the wrong places. “And you? You’re following the schedule too. You’re predictable, and sooner or later, your parents are going to cotton onto that fact and catch you at home. Then where are you going to be? Locked up in your room and yelled at all the time, just like it used to be—is that what you want? Elliott, you left because you couldn’t take that anymore.”

Elliott’s shoulders slumped. “I was just going to feed the chickens.” He protested.

“Your parents do that often enough.” Jude hissed. “I get the news after all. How many people is it that have gone missing this month?” He asked pointedly.

Elliott looked away and dragged a hand down his face, upsetting his glasses briefly. He did not look at Jude—at the empty space where no one stands, because the shed has gone unlived in for years. (For the past twenty years, the mailman has left number 45’s mail in number 43’s mailbox. There is no house number 45. For that matter, there is no neighborhood, and the people his parents blame for his disappearance live half a mile away. His parents are seeing things—or rather, Elliott is, and they aren’t and therein the problem lies.) “I worry about them.” Elliott admitted finally. “They’re pretty good at hunting your standard, every-day supernatural creatures, but Fae? I’m the first person in the family in centuries to have the Sight, and I can’t help but worry for them.” He shrugged. “Kin is kin, after all.”

Jude scoffed. “They sure don’t treat you like it.” He inched closer to the wards around the Richmond property and stared imploringly at his friend. “Please, Elliott. I just want you to be safe and happy, and you’re neither in that house. We both know that they’re trying to make you somebody you’re not and the resultant tension is killing you by inches. Come away with me for a little while longer?”

Elliott faltered. He looked at the sky, at the fading sun, then back at the towering manor behind him. Then he sighed and stepped back over the property line, taking Jude’s hand. “Well…It is getting dark,” he admitted. “I’d probably trip over my feet and fall to my death if I went up there now.” A quicksilver smile was flashed at the hovering Unseelie. “Guess you convinced me after all.”

The Unseelie scoffed. “I may not be able to tell one myself, but I know a lie when I hear one. I didn’t convince you; the late hour and possibility of discovery convinced you.” Jude smiled with all his pretty, pointy teeth. “By the way, it seems your parents have finally returned from their outing.”

Elliott glanced back towards the front of the house, and sure enough, the Tesla was pulling into the driveway. “We just barely missed them then.” He observed and started walking back to the gate to Underhill.

Jude hummed in agreement. “You know,” he started mischievously, “I promised Mother I’d have you for dinner.”

Elliott’s gaze snapped back to him. He quirked an eyebrow at him. “I hope you don’t mean that literally. I was under the impression that you weren’t one of the man-eating Fae.”

His friend beamed back at him and pointedly didn’t answer. “We have other guests coming too—the God of the Forest for one. My Siren kin are coming as well. I hope your eyes are in good shape, because you’ll have a lot of eye-candy today.”

“Are they all pretty in a you’ll-be-too-starstruck-to-notice-I’m-ripping-off-chunks way, or is that just a you-thing?” Elliott returned. He pulled his hand from Jude’s grasp and stepped forwards, opening the gate to Underhill and letting him through first before following.

A sickening wrench hits him as he passes through the gate. Colors swirl behind his eyelids, pastel shades twining together like salt-water taffy stretched thin by a candy-maker. Gravity seems to fall away, and he tumbles head over heel.

Before him, Jude peers over his shoulder, mint-green hair floating in the air. The Unseelie King watches in amusement as his human friend spins past one of his flowers, getting a face full of pollen. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He asks, childishly amused. Then he leaned forwards and wove a hypnotic little spell as he murmured, “Come away now, human child, and stay a fortnight in my wonderland. Come away and forget all your cares.”

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that Elliott does not die nor does he get eaten. He's just never leaving Jude, that's all. The Unseelie King does not share, and especially not with supernatural hunters.


End file.
